Chapter Text
A sign stood crooked on the roof, held with metal wire: Rose Weddings LLC, in cheap neon. Patrick locked his door the moment he got out of the car, and Rachel looked at the ground, frowning, before getting out. Her suede flats crunched gravel. The door frame was surrounded by chipped paint and broken shingles. When Patrick and Rachel walked up to it, there was a piece of printer paper with a Sharpied floral border taped on the wall next to it, above a broken-looking doorbell: OPEN, in feminine, almost-cursive. The door knob got stuck when Patrick tried to turn it, and he had to shoulder the door to get it open.
"This is—it, right?" Rachel asked as her eyes glazed over the building and the yellow lawn surrounding it. "The place your mom called?"
Patrick grunted as he worked the door open. "Says so on the sign. Don't know what you want me to tell you." There was the sound of wood chipping as Patrick forced the door.
"Easy there, easy there!" said a voice from inside. "Don't need to—" and there was a clatter of objects being put down. A throat cleared, and: "Allow me." Patrick put his hands in his pockets and stepped back. Rachel followed.
The door was jimmied open to reveal a cluttered office space and three people. It smelled musty, like an unused and aged cabin. An older woman, wearing a black-and-white coat with puffy shoulders, reading a book behind a desk; another much younger woman perched on the desk, filing her nails; an older man in an expensive suit, holding out an arm and gesturing Patrick and Rachel in. "Welcome!" the man said, in a booming voice that did not suit this place.
"Come on, come on, sit down," the man said as Patrick and Rachel trailed in. He pulled a few chairs from against the wall, open-backed dining chairs with plastic, garish upholstery. He set the chairs so they're facing the front desk, tapping the backs, and goes to stand next to the older woman. Patrick and Rachel lingered in front of the chairs. The man smiled and said "please." The chairs whined as the sat down, and Patrick winced.
"All right, everyone's settled that's good, that's good," the man trailed off. The man pressed his hands together. "Welcome to Rose Weddings! I'm Johnny Rose, this is my wife, Moira, Alexis, my daughter—"
"Associate," Alexis said, holding a finger in the air and looking at the nails of her other hand.
"And associate," Johnny continued, seamless. "How are we doing today?"
"Quite fine, though you interrupted my reading," Moira said, with an indescribable accent.
"I meant the clients, Moira," Johnny said.
"Pretty good," Rachel said.
"Yep, great," Patrick said, and his chair creaked as he shifted. Rachel glanced at him. Patrick looked back, eyebrows moving minutely.
"Let me get this right: Patrick Brewer and Rachel Bilson? Planning for the spring of next year, somewhere local..." Johnny shuffled with papers on the desk as Moira smiled emptily at both of them. Alexis tapped away on her phone, her long nail clicking on the screen. "Huh, quite the drive..." and Johnny looked at them, a silent question.
"We wanted somewhere more central, I have a few aunts who live closer to here," Patrick said.
"Yeah, I didn't want Sandy to drive that much, and my parents don't mind," Rachel said, smiling, closed-mouth, at Patrick. Patrick looked away, at the dingy window in the center of the left wall.
"I thought we already agreed on this," Patrick mumbled.
Johnny looked between them as the silence stretched on, the enthusiasm draining from his voice. "Right," he said, "we can workshop that, or move on—"
"We're fine," Rachel said, playing with the ends of her hair, "we just need help with, you know, everything else." Patrick breathed a laugh and shook his head. "Not that we can't—" Rachel said, noticing.
"No, of course," Johnny said, seeming to regain his bearings, "nothing wrong with wanting some help." Rachel gave a small nod to Patrick, see?. Patrick said nothing.
"How much do you guys cost?" Patrick asked, and Rachel winced and looked away. Patrick affected a small smile. "We do have a budget, here," and Patrick glanced at Johnny's suit, his watch, and his shoes. Instead of being offended or dismayed, Johnny gave them a professional smile, betraying a hint of admiration.
"We have plenty of affordable options," Johnny said. Patrick guessed that was a diplomatic way of saying that every option they had was cheap. Johnny leaned down to look them both in the eye. "We can go through some of them when we get a better picture of what you both want." He punctuated this by firmly pointing at both of them.
"Not now? We can get settled on all that pretty quickly, while we're going through them..." Patrick said, dreading having to take longer at this than they have to. He looked at Rachel, but she was agreeing with Johnny, nodding her head and running fingers across her scalp and pushing her hair back. Her hands eventually settled on her knees, leaning forwards.
"No, no, we can take all the time we need, right, Moira?" Johnny said, and Moira looked up, surprised.
Moira arranged her face into a diplomatic smile. "Oh, yes, anything for the happy couple." She went back to her book. Johnny cleared his throat, and after a few seconds of waiting Alexis looked at him in confusion.
Alexis got the message and said, "for sure!" while nodding rapidly and making small circles with her hands. She shimmied her shoulders and smiled. "We'll handle everything."
—
Rachel had the stack of papers they gave them in her lap, her hand resting on top so they don't fly away when they hit one of the many potholes on this dilapidated street. Patrick has both hands on the steering wheel, and they drive on in silence. Rachel stared out the window, sneaking occasional glances, and looking away when they were returned.
"They seemed nice," Rachel said.
"Yeah. Nice. Sure," Patrick replied. Rachel looked at him, expecting more, and when nothing came, she sighed and went back to the window.
"I liked some of the venues they picked out. We can go through some of them when he get there."
"We can do that."
"A decent list of bands too, Patrick. Maybe we can run them by some of your music friends? Just to get the full picture."
"Maybe, yeah." Patrick kept his eyes on the road.
Rachel let her head fall against the door and groaned. "I told you, it's fine if you don't want a big wedding."
"It's not that, it's nothing. Whatever you—whatever you need, we can do. Okay?"
"I don't need—this, Patrick, if it's not what you want." Rachel gestured vaguely. "We can get our parents down here, and elope—"
"We can't do that to everyone, Rachel." Patrick sighed. "It's just nerves, I'll get over it, everything will be fine." Patrick looked at her for a second. "We'll be fine, okay?" She looked back, still a bit uncertain, but somewhat reassured. She raised her hand off the stack of papers to touch him, but then she thought better of it and let it fall. The silence, for the rest of the ride to the motel, was unbreakable.
When they got to the motel, which looked the same as any cheap hotel in rural Canada, with yellowing siding, scuffed up doors, and flickering lights covered in bugs, Patrick went to check them in while Rachel got the bags—he offered, but she said he was the one to pack them in, so he conceded. So he walked into the office to check in, and was ignored by the woman manning the front desk. After a few seconds of waiting, Patrick cleared his throat and she looked up from the ancient computer. The woman said, in a flat voice, "hello. Want a room."
Patrick was taken slightly aback. "Er—yes. What are your options?"
The woman paused for a moment, then shrugged. "I can give you a one bed or a two bed. I don't know what other options you're expecting."
"One's fine," Patrick said, irrationally considering asking for the two for a few moments (after he banished the thought, he briefly wondered where it came from). Patrick looked around at the office. "And, nothing much, really." She gave him a tired half-smile that lasted for a second and handed him a clipboard.
"Sign in and I'll give you a key." She went back to her computer, which he now saw she was playing Solitaire on. Patrick took an old, decrepit pen from the counter, scribbled on the corner to test it, and filled out the form. She didn't say a word, or even glance at him, the entire time, which Patrick didn't find unpleasant. It felt like a reprieve, but he didn't know from what, so he ignored the feeling. When he dropped the clipboard onto the counter, she barely looked up, slid it into a drawer, and grabbed a key seemingly at random from what looked like a rusty, crooked nail with delusions of grandeur, and tossed it to Patrick, all without looking him in the eye. "Enjoy your stay."
"Thanks," Patrick said, and she hummed an acknowledgement for the sole purpose of ending this interaction. Patrick nodded once and left.
When he closed the door behind him, he saw that Rachel was surrounded by wheeled luggage, with two duffel bags slung over her shoulders. She looked frazzled, her hair messed up because of the night breeze, and she flinched whenever an insect flew too close to her face. Still, none of this showed on her face, and it was as if he had been in there for thirty seconds instead of ten minutes. When he jangled the key and pointed to the room, she heaved the duffels up and grabbed the suitcase handles and followed him.
Patrick offered to help twice before they got there, only for Rachel to shake her head and say she's fine each time. When she got through the door, everything seemed to hit the ground at once; the luggage tipped over and the duffels hit the carpet with exhausted, echoing thuds. Rachel sighed in relief and fell onto the bed. She didn't say anything as Patrick lined everything up against the wall and took out the necessities.
Patrick was still unzipping pockets, looking for the containers of floss, when Rachel said: "big day, huh?" Patrick looked up and she was grinning. Patrick breathed a laugh and nodded. Rachel sat up and put her chin in her hands. "I mean, it's finally happening."
There's something about her enthusiasm that makes Patrick grin back, despite something holding it back. "Still a few months out," he said, and, looking away and attempting a joke, "plenty of time for things to go horribly wrong." Patrick chuckled and Rachel went still.
Rachel's eyebrows were furrowed. "What would go wrong?" she asked, quiet.
"It's a, a joke, Rachel," Patrick said, "everything will be fine, I'm kidding." Patrick dropped the floss back into the pocket and had a hand on the suitcase. He was looking up at her.
Rachel looked at the wall and twirled her engagement ring around on her finger. "Yeah, but," she started, hesitated for a few seconds, and continued. "You said that like—" and she cut herself off. She brushed her hair from out of her face and stared at her knees. She was worrying her lip with her finger.
"I didn't say it like anything." Patrick got up and sat next to her on the bed. Rachel was still curled away from him, slouched over her legs with her arms shielding her sides. It made her look dainty, almost, and it made him feel like a brute. He shifted away from her a few inches. "I was joking, Rachel, I'm sorry."
"It's not just that," Rachel said, "it's —" she groaned in frustration. "We both want this, right?" she asked.
"Yeah, why—why wouldn't we?"
"Because it just seems like—" Rachel searched for the word, with an edge of frustration. Patrick thought about chiming in multiple times, but he stopped himself. Rachel shook her head and sighed. "Nevermind."
"What were you—"
"It's nothing, it's fine, let's just head to bed." Rachel still didn't look at him, or smile. She grabbed her toothbrush from her suitcase and went into the bathroom.
Rachel was still brushing her teeth while Patrick put on his pajamas. A pair of sweatpants and a baseball t-shirt he still had from high school. He tugged them on and waited for Rachel. He thought about the wedding, and his mind veered off into thinking about the weeks he took off for this, to his parents making the long drive here, even to all his best men having to buy matching ties.
Patrick focused on that one, mostly on the logistics. It seemed faintly ridiculous to hand them out the day of, as if they were pairs of rented skis on a school field trip that they didn't want to go on in the first place. Does he send them shopping with a list, then? Yes, this exact pattern, Dave, in cornflower blue. Don't ask me, take it up with— but he cut that thought off, feeling uncomfortable. But still, matching ties looked great in group photos, but he never thought of the practicalities. It was a given, like a box of Christmas lights in a grandmother's attic: the thought of her buying them never crossed the mind.
Behind every photogenic moment, there was someone working in the background, carefully constructing it. It was obvious, Patrick supposed, but he didn't like thinking about it.